


Roboris

by 8611



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Alpha Pack, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott’s ability manifests two days after he turns 13. It takes Stiles a year and a bit past that. (superpowers!AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE AS OF 04/26/14** : I'm incredibly sorry you guys, but it doesn't look like this is ever going to be finished. After the end of this past season I've been having a huge amount of trouble writing Teen Wolf, and attempting to even start work on this again has been a struggle. Thanks so much to you who read the first few chapters, I do appreciate it. <3
> 
> Exactly what it says on the tin! Also, for the bulk of this (basically, once Allison comes in) I've bumped everyone up to 18.
> 
> Beta'd by the ever fabulous [starsandgraces](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces). <3

Scott’s ability manifests two days after he turns 13. He wakes up and stares at the way the sun slants across the wall opposite him, watches the way the dust is drifting and spinning through the gold in the room, and suddenly just _knows_. 

He knows what his mother is making for breakfast, across the house, can hear her humming, can see the dust dancing to her song. He can feel that she’s happy, loose, that today is a day off and there isn’t a dark chord of worry in her emotions. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the information, so he creeps out of his window (dropping into the bushes too hard, he’ll have bruises, he always does), and runs – full tilt, sprints – to Stiles’ house, because this is what they do. When something goes wrong, when something ends up weird, they run to each other. 

He’s breathless and Stiles is sleepy, trying to get Scott to _just slow down, man, what?_

He can feel Stiles’ confusion and sleep, can see each of his eyelashes. He can smell dirty socks and pizza crumbs and something that might be pressed flowers, locked away in a book on Stiles’ top shelf that Scott has never touched. 

“You’re powered, dude,” Stiles says, excited, after he’s slipped out of bed and they’re sitting on the floor. His eyes are wide, electric. “That is _so cool_!”

It’s not like it’s a big deal – almost a quarter of the population has some kind of ability – but, as he’s sitting there on Stiles’ floor, feeling Stiles’ smile like sun kissed waves, he starts to feel like maybe it is _so cool_.

\---

It takes Stiles a year and a bit past that – always the late bloomer. His isn’t all at once - isn’t dropped on him one morning - but comes and goes quietly for a few months before Stiles is fully aware of it, and it keeps growing. 

He gets a tugging feeling at the back of his head, every once in a while, a glimmer of a sliver-second headache, and it’s gone. After that it’s like he’s aware of someone watching him, without them actually looking at him. 

He’s sitting with Scott when he finally realizes what it is. There’s a low buzz of energy around him, they’re in the lunch room and he feels like a dozen people are pulling at him, quietly, not obtrusively, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“You ok?” Scott asks, and when Stiles looks up at him, sees the concern, Stiles just sighs. 

“You already know my answer.”

“Why are you so stressed?” Scott asks, but Stiles isn’t listening, because – Scott knows. Scott knows, and Stiles can feel that knowing. Something that’s curled deep, at the base of his skull, is telling him what Scott is – _empath_ , his brain says. _Sensor. Empath. Sensor. Empath._

Stiles spins in his seat and stares at two of the people who feels like they’re pulling at him – it’s Lydia Martin, who Stiles has loved for about his whole life, and Jackson Wittemore. _Banshee. Shifter. Banshee. Shifter._

There’s a girl in the corner who pings as _healer_. Siblings across and down the table from them, _elementals_ , both of them. Stiles is dimly aware that Scott is calling his name, but it’s only when Scott reaches across the table for him that Stiles turns back to him. 

“I know what you are,” Stiles breathes, and Scott stares at him. Stiles knows he’s puzzling out what Stiles is feeling: overwhelmed, on the brink of a panic attack, falling towards the ground. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” Scott says, and they spend the rest of lunch under the bleachers, testing how far Stiles can sense people out, his eyes closed and his palms pressed (grounded) on the cool gym floor. 

\---

Scott’s cover is that he’s a grunt at the local vet clinic. Which he actually is, technically, so it’s really only a half lie. 

The lie is that after he locks up for the day, Deaton teaches him to hone his senses and use his body as a weapon. The fact that he can read people’s emotions turns out to be good luck in a fight, especially considering he can see things coming faster than the average person. 

Deaton’s sister will come by from time to time, teach him how to wrap his hands like a bare-knuckle boxer, and move him through exercises and attacks, defenses and patterns. 

“What can you do?” Scott asks, sometimes, and Morrell just always smiles at him and parries whatever strike he’s thrown her way. She never tells him, and he can never tell what she feels about it, because she always seems neutral when he reads her, no matter how good he gets. 

(Stiles tells him later – psychometry, same as Deaton. It’s not uncommon for siblings to share abilities.)

And he is getting good, he knows that now. It’s no longer an onslaught of messy emotional stew; now he can pick and choose, follow strings that are wrapped around people’s minds and hands. He knows people now, by the way they feel and by the way they smell. His mother is even and grounded, strong and steady, like a ship on a calm sea, and she smells like juniper and tea tree oil, coffee and fresh cotton. Stiles jitters and jumps around, his emotions moving as much as his body, and always seems to smell like terrible body wash, but under that – wet earth and pavement and that strangely clean smell of unscented soap. 

The new girl, Allison - he remembers the way she had written her name at the top of their shared lab sheet in looping writing – feels like strength, coming up against a solid wall, with star sparks of happiness between the stones. She smells like newly cut wood and salon brand shampoo, and other, stranger things – inorganic materials he can’t place, gunpowder and metal. 

He likes Allison. He likes Allison _a lot_. He likes the way her hair curls around her shoulders and the stretch of her legs and her smile, her eyes, her – well, her everything. 

Stiles squints at her at lunch and tries to puzzle her out, on Scott’s orders, although he always feels (and looks; Stiles’ face and body telegraphs his emotions as much as his mind does) confused. 

“There’s something there,” Stiles says, his head canted to the side. “Maybe. Just a bit. Maybe she’s super weak? Like, she can… I don’t know. Automatically know what song is playing on the radio, even if she’s never heard it before. Or knows every movie by heart.”

Scott laughs, the sound startled out him. 

“I don’t think that’s it,” Scott says, and Stiles just rolls his eyes before stuffing more fries in his mouth. 

It takes getting to know her, and then, the simplest of things, to finally find out what Allison can do: he asks. She laughs, grins at him, and opens her mouth to spill her secrets like they’re nothing. People don’t talk this candidly about their abilities, but Allison doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I’ve got enhanced reflexes and eyesight. It’s the reason I like archery. And the reason Stiles couldn’t figure me out – I can mask my ability.” 

“That’s so cool,” Scott says, and he means it, mouth hanging slightly open, because who’s ever been able to stump Stiles?

That night she kisses him, and Scott knows he doesn’t just like Allison, he probably loves her a little bit. 

(A lot bit.)

\---

Because Scott’s going to be the hero, Stiles had taken it upon himself a couple of years ago to be Mission Control. 

(Lydia calls him a sidekick. Mission Control sounds infinitely more badass, thank you very much.)

Scott’s out on patrol, aided by Allison, which means that Stiles is at his computer, nursing a fruit roll up and listening to the lovebirds giggle over Bluetooth. Stiles rolls his eyes, fiddling with his earpiece. He’s still hasn’t got a handle on Allison. He’s all for Scott being happy, and holy shit, is Scott ever happy, but Allison is… there’s something off about her. The fact that she can mask her ability has been weirding Stiles out for a while. He didn’t even know that you could do that. 

Stiles leans back in his chair, tuning Allison and Scott out a bit. It’s Beacon Hills, there’s never much patrolling to be done, and if something really comes up Scott can just yell until he gets Stiles’ attention. 

He shuts his eyes, breathing out through his nose, and tries to center himself. He’s always worried about doing this, letting everything go, because that’s when the panic and the anxiety tend to creep in, when his heart starts to hammer and his fingers buzz, but he’s working at it, and this is important. This is what he does. He’s got to learn how to do it better. 

His dad is downstairs, background static against pinpricks of light. (His mom was the one he inherited this from, his dad is unpowered.) He can feel the neighbors across the street – parents and two kids, all powered – and a few people beyond that. He evens his breathing, stretches out across that nothingness, and tries to push himself. 

There’s something about a mile away, at the very range of what he’s been able to push himself to. It’s new, nothing he’s felt before, and he frowns, stretching, trying to get at it. It’s just beyond his fingertips, and he cracks his knuckles, breathing harder. 

It’s a whole group. Stiles’ eyes snap open and he lurches forward in the chair, scrabbling towards his desk. 

“Scott?” Nothing but cooing on the other end. “Scott!”

_“What?”_

“You guys need to get home now. There’s a whole group of supes in the preserve, and I don’t know who they are.”

_“Wait, what? Really? How do you know-“_

“I just know, ok? And they feel… they feel wrong.” 

_“Roger that.”_

Stiles trades the earpiece for a jacket and his car keys, skidding down the hall and nearly tripping over himself on the stairs. He’s almost out the front door when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He looks back to find his dad standing in the hall, one eyebrow raised. 

“Sudden emergency on a school night?” his dad asks. 

“Uh, yes, actually. Of the Scott kind. You see, Scott has… girl problems,” Stiles says, and then plows on. “Basically there’s this new chick, right? Allison? And he’s like super hung up on her, but he’s not sure what she feels about him, because she’s kind of quiet. And obviously, as his best bro, it is my duty to be on duty – uh, at his beck and call? – at all hours in case of –“

“Ok, fine, go,” his dad says, grinning, and Stiles salutes him before resuming his mad scramble for the Jeep. One day his dad is going to see through the motormouth defense and Stiles is going to be screwed, but luckily, today is not that day. 

The good news is that, although sometimes people with powers can feel each other if they’re within a few feet of each other, Stiles doesn’t ping in the same way. He’s always assumed that it’s a side effect of his ability. This means that he could be right on top of these guys and not be noticed, so he takes the main road past the preserve, putting on music and driving slowly, like he’s got every right to be wandering around. 

He can’t pinpoint where they are exactly, but he can feel them as he drives past. Something about them produces a creeping sensation, like smoke twisting across his skin, the air claustrophobic. Two of them have a power he can’t put a name to, but they read almost as the same person. One’s a speedster. Two are shifters. 

One of the shifters makes him outright shiver, a line of ice settling at the back of his mind, down his spine, and he kills the music and floors the Jeep, heading to Scott’s. 

\---

“So Stiles is sure there are five of them?” Allison asks as she sits down in English, picking up where they’d left their conversation via text last period. 

“Yeah, and evidently one is powerful and creepy,” Scott says as he wrestles his notebook out of his bag. He notices, when he looks up, that Allison smells like sandalwood and is wearing bronze eyeshadow today. There are glittery flecks of it caught on her mascara, and when she blinks they sparkle in the light coming in through the windows. 

“That’s a bad combo,” Allison says. Scott just nods sagely as Stiles comes skidding into the room, and practically runs a guy over to get to the desk in front of Scott. 

“Ok, so,” Stiles says as he drops into the chair. “I whittled it down a bit, I think. One of the shifters is just your average animal type deal, and the two who I thought might have been one person can morph, or something. They’re weird. The creepyass shifter is nothing I can pin down through.”

“Can he shift into other humans?” Allison asks. “I know it’s rare, but it can happen.”

“No, it’s like something… I don’t know. I can’t describe it. It’s like, smoke, or ash. There’s something mercurial about his shape.” 

“Nice SAT word,” Allison says, grinning at him. 

“Worry about SAT later, possible supervillains now.” 

“There’s no such thing as supervillains,” Scott says. “No one’s that powerful.”

“That we know of,” Stiles points out, and then he goes oddly still, his eyes glazed. Scott knows that look, and he can feel the sudden quiet in Stiles’ mind. He’s reading someone, probably someone new. Scott looks around the class, but no, these are the same kids they see every day. He’s about to poke Stiles when the door opens and a teacher he’s never seen before walks in.

She’s pretty, and young, and Scott can’t remember any notice about a new teacher. When he reaches out to try to read her, he sits back in his chair heavily, eyes wide. Allison doesn’t miss it, and she raises an eyebrow in question. 

He starts scribbling a note to Allison as Stiles turns around, frustration balled up tight in his mind, and writes under what Scott had started writing.

_I can’t feel anything from her, no emotion, no nothing._

_Yeah, neither can I. She’s a brick wall, but she pinged as something, and now I can’t grab it._

_She’s got to be powered if she’s hiding behind… something._

_I swear to god if we’ve become supervillain central this is gonna suck._

Allison reaches out to slip the paper onto her desk and stares at it for a moment before writing something back.

_Stiles – different from how you couldn’t feel anything with me?_

_Yeah, with you I could feel this – I feel abilities kind of like you’d see stars. You’ve got that light. She’s just a brick wall of nothing._

Scott takes Stiles’ pen, writing below what Stiles had just written.

_I’ve never felt nothing from someone before. She feels wrong._

The three of them turn to where the teacher is writing on the board, her handwriting neat and geometric. When she turns around and moves to the side, dusting her hands off, she’s smiling broadly. 

“Hi guys,” she says, and points at the board. “I’m Miss Blake, and I’m going to be filling in for Mr. Barrow for a while.”

\---

Stiles isn’t sure how he’s started hanging out with Lydia Martin, although he’s pretty sure it’s got something to do with Allison, and he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth (even if everything else is going to shit). 

“You’re all so jumpy,” Lydia says at lunch one day. 

“Stuff’s come up,” Allison says, shrugging. Lydia rolls her eyes. 

“Is this about the whole supervillain ridiculousness?” Lydia asks. 

“Uh --“ Allison starts.

“I thought so. You three need to relax. Jackson and I are going into the city on Friday; you should come with us.”

“To do what?” Scott asks.

“Dance. Drink. Make merriment. It’ll be fun,” Lydia says. 

“But we’re not 21,” Scott says, frowning. Lydia just laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. 

“Not a problem,” Lydia says.

This is how they end up packed into one of the Argent’s cars. Stiles is stuck in the back with Lydia and Jackson, and he’s feeling particularly third-wheelish. 

He presses his cheek to the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes, breathing in. He doesn’t even try to concentrate on anyone outside of the car, considering the power currently in the car. While none of them are particularly powerful, they’re not low-levels either, and all together, their abilities tangle like incandescent strings. It’s almost intoxicating, the strength in the arch of his spine from those around him. 

The IDs Lydia had somehow gotten for them work fine, despite the fact that none of them look remotely like they can legally drink (Stiles is willing to bet that Lydia pulled some strings). Stiles walks in to find himself slammed into a wall of noise, lights, and power. He’s used to one in four people being powered, give or take. Over half of this club has to be, and it’s like getting hit by a truck, something almost electric jumping over the bare skin of his arms. 

They find a table and Lydia and Jackson go to get them drinks, leaving Stiles with Scott and Allison. He shifts closer to Allison, staring out at the dance floor. He tries to pick people out, but it’s giving him the same fuzzy feeling he gets whenever he’s in a crowd, abilities mashing together from dozens of people, pulling at him and buzzing with energy just under his skin. 

Still, there’s something over the top of it – something dark and swirling, someone powerful. He raises his head and picks them out almost right away – a trio at a table in the back, dressed in leather and black, their expressions vacillating from bored apathy to downright scowly. The youngest has to be about their age, her hair perfectly pin straight, not a single strand out of place, and the oldest could almost be Stiles’ dad, his shirt revealing way too much chest for someone in that age bracket. 

The one in the middle is silent and stony, his hands over the back of the booth. He’s wearing leather gloves, of all things, and Stiles would roll his eyes if it wasn’t for the fact that the dark, creeping sensation is coming straight from the guy. 

“Troubles?” Allison asks, her lips near his ear. “You’re drifting.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “I’m just… the guy in the corner is weird.”

“Where?”

Stiles points over her shoulder and she turns to look, her hair catching the lights and splintering into a million colors as it settles over her shoulder.

“What are they?” Allison asks when she turns back, and Scott leans in so that he can hear, all three of them sharing the same space. 

“Uh.” Stiles takes in a deep breath, centers himself, his eyes fluttering closed. The music seems louder, he can feel the bass in his bones. 

“Concentrate,” Allison says, putting a hand on his arm and Stiles slows his breathing, focusing on the even pulse of her and Scott’s powers, shutting out the music and the buzz and thrum of the others in the club. 

There – he can just grab it. 

“The girl is a firestarter. Immune, too,” Stiles says. “The oldest controls electricity. And the guy in the middle –“

He has to suck in a breath, the dark feeling that’s been tugging at him is suddenly everywhere, in his mind, crawling across his skin, squeezing his neck. It’s not only incredibly powerful, it’s also something beyond dark, almost a total absence of light. It settles at the base of his skull, reminds of him of the creeping feeling from the shifter he still can’t figure out.

“Stiles,” Scott prompts. 

“The guy in the middle is a power sink.”

Allison sucks in a breath and Scott scoots closer as Stiles opens his eyes.

“An actual, seriously for real, one?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“That’s –“ Allison turns back to look at him. “That’s _incredibly_ creepy.” 

“You’re telling me,” Stiles mutters, and the three of them stay close, tangled together, their familiarity warming Stiles’ skin. 

He tries to put the guy out of his mind, helped by judicious application of dancing and drinks that he doesn’t know the names of, and by the time they leave, he’s mostly forgotten about him. Allison tells him and Scott to stay at her house, and the three of them curl up together in her bed, tangled together. 

When he wakes up in the morning, cotton mouthed and with his head splitting open, Allison and Scott are still sleeping, and the guy from the club is nowhere in his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

Scott doesn’t particularly have any delusions about the kind of crap comic books suggest – that people with abilities would be evil, or good, superheroes or villains. It’s just that, fiction. He knows that people might be nice, or mean, but true good and evil? There’s always more to it than that. 

He thought they had gotten pretty close to evil with Matt, twisting Jackson’s mind in his grip (and Scott never wants to meet another mind controller ever, ever again), but not quite. 

However, something has been unsettling him since these five new, still unseen, individuals came into town. He knows that some of it is just picking up on Stiles’ feelings, but not all of it. They’re close enough that he’ll get ghosts of Stiles’ emotions and movements even when they’re nowhere near each other, almost like they’re strung together by a telephone line, and Stiles has been on edge since this all started. Scott’s not envious that Stiles can feel what they are, something that he’d likened to swirling ink and smoke. 

Scott sighs, slumping a bit and leaning his head against the library self. They’re all in the public library, reading up on encyclopedias of known powers to find anything out about these guys. It’s hard to conceptualize when they don’t even have faces or names, just abilities. 

He’s just about to slip another book from the shelf when he feels a spike of surprise from Stiles. He leans around the shelf to see Stiles sitting where he was before – at a table with Allison and Lydia – but he’s gone tense, and he’s watching someone at the far end of the room. Scott follows his line of sight to where a man is standing at the issue desk, talking with one of the librarians. 

The guy is chatting with her, smiling, and doesn’t read as particularly shady, but Stiles is staring at him, unblinking. Scott can hear his heart, going just a bit too fast. 

He’s got to be one of them. Scott abandons his stack of books and heads for the man as the librarian starts leading him towards the room in the back where the periodicals are kept. 

Scott stops by the door to the room, looking through the window in the door. It’s dark inside, the only light coming from the microfilm readers. The library has the man set up at one, showing him how to use it. Scott squints, staring at the man’s back. He seems neutral, or hooded, in some way. His emotions, while not angry or unhappy, certainly don’t quite match the smile he’s got on as he laughs at something the librarian has said. 

He feels like he’s deliberately holding himself back. Scott chews on his lip, thinking fast – could he know what Scott was and be shielding himself? 

(And man, has his world ever gotten weird, he didn’t even think that was a thing until recently.)

Scott’s concentrating on the guy so much that he nearly jumps a foot in the air when the librarian opens the door at the same time that someone puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“What-!” He spins towards the hand as the librarian gives him a rather pointed, evil eye accompanied _shhhh!_

It’s just Stiles, who’s raising his eyebrows in question (although he feels like he’s holding a laugh back). 

“What are you doing?” Stiles whispers as the librarian leaves with a scowly glance over her shoulder at them. 

“The guy is – I thought – is he one of them?” 

“What guy?” 

Scott gestures though the window, and Stiles peeks through. Scott can feel the moment he makes him out in the dark, can see how he licks his lips and swallows nervously. 

“He’s not one of them,” Stiles says. “I saw him when we went out a few weeks ago.” 

“Why the freak-out then?”

“He’s… he just creeps me out.”

Scott frowns, turning back to the guy. His posture has changed now that the librarian is gone, and he’s scanning through the newspaper clippings he’s got quickly, his shoulders hunched and stiff under his leather jacket. 

“I didn’t know he lived around here, is all,” Stiles says after a while, shrugging. 

Scott knows that Stiles is downplaying whatever he feels about this guy, but he lets it go. 

“Well then, we should welcome him to the neighborhood,” Scott says, pushing open the door. 

“What’re you – _Scott_!” 

The man looks up as soon as the door opens, and frowns when it clicks shut behind Stiles and Scott. 

“Yes?” He asks. 

“We, just, uh –“ Scott actually has no plan here. Luckily, Stiles saves him. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, almost breathless. “You’re Derek Hale.” 

Scott turns to Stiles, blinking in confusion. That would be kind of impossible, considering the Hales were all killed years before when a group of hunters had come through, one of the last families who still hunted, existing in a grey area of the law because they never made the first move. 

(Although the fire that killed the Hales was pretty fuckin’ illegal.)

“Why does it matter?” The guy – Derek – practically growls. He’s radiating annoyance and something dark, sort of like a powered version of a very angry hedgehog. 

“We should leave,” Scott says, because, as he likes to think of himself as a pragmatist, he doesn’t want to be attacked in the library. 

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, defiant, and Scott can feel him thinking, conveying images, colors, shapes. Scott can’t read minds, but he and Stiles have figured out something close, and what Scott gets from Stiles’ jumble of thoughts is that the guy can’t actually hurt them – he doesn’t have an offensive ability, just defensive. 

Derek glares, his anger spiking, but he doesn’t make a move. In fact, although he’s angry, Scott can’t feel him making any plans about getting up and charging them any time soon. 

Instead, Scott feels him force himself to be calm, and then stands stiffly before brushing past them, out of the room. He does let the door slam, one gloved hand pushing the knob away from him like it had offended him. 

“He’s a powersink,” Stiles says, after he’s left, voice and thoughts quiet in the dark. 

“I didn’t think those actually existed,” Scott says. 

“He’s the first I’ve ever felt. What was he looking at?” 

They go over to examine the microfilm reader, and find an article about a murder from about an hour away, a couple of years ago. It’s unremarkable, until Scott sees the picture of the woman who was killed. 

“Holy fuck,” Stiles breathes, his surprise like a sudden spike of light in the room, radiating from him. 

“That’s Miss Blake,” Scott says. 

\---

This is probably a monumentally stupid idea. Stiles has in fact realized, and even come to terms with that fact. Then again, most of his ideas fall into the ‘probably monumentally stupid’ category. 

He kills the ignition of the Jeep and just stares down the alley for a second. He’d managed to track down an address for the Hales currently residing in Alameda County – the previously met Derek, plus a Cora and a Peter – and he’d ended up in the warehouse district. It had started to get trendy in the last few years, as more businesses moved out and yuppies moved in, converting the space into rustic lofts. 

Stiles walks across the lobby with his eyes half closed, feeling around him. Unfortunately, it’s a jumble of abilities, and he can’t really tell if any of the Hales are home. Riding up in the elevator only makes it worse, floors of people and powers whispering past the base of his skull as it ascends. 

He wouldn’t normally be doing this, but Lydia had pointed out that there might be a connection between Miss Blake and the Evil Gang Five (as they’ve started calling them – or EG5 for the sake of text messages), and the only person they knew who knew about whoever Miss Blake had been before was one Derek Hale. She’d been listed under a different name in the article, and Stiles (and Scott) had been wary of her since day one. The fact that they couldn’t read her was weird. Clearly, something was up. 

He knows that this whole operation is going to be a problem when he gets to the Hales’ door and can a) only feel two people inside, and b) neither of them is a powersink.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters to himself, frowning at the door. It’s one of those rolly metal ones, and he thinks about banging his head against it. This is probably the least thought out plan he’s had in a while. 

He could wait for Derek to come back. Hang out in the Jeep like a total stalker. Or in the hallway, like an even bigger stalker (although, is it really stalking if you got the address from the Yellowpages?). That’s attractive. 

He’s trying to make up his mind when the door rolls open. Stiles looks up quickly to find himself face to face with the chin and chest of a guy in an exceptionally deep v-neck. 

“Jesus, put the girls away,” Stiles says, almost automatically, to the pecs in front of him. Somewhere, in the apartment, that gets a startled laugh out of someone. 

“What?” The person attached to the pecs asks, and Stiles backs up a step so that he can actually see the guy. It’s the other dude from the club, and sparks of light blossom in Stiles’ head, tinted a light, electric blue. Under it, there are licks of fire, warmth down his spine. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says, holding his hands up in front of him and nearly tripping over in his haste to back up another step. “I’m here to see Derek.”

“He’s not here,” Pecs says. “Who are you?”

“Stiles.”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” 

“Peter, let him in,” someone says, and Pecs – Peter - sighs, stepping aside and rolling the door wide for Stiles to slip into the apartment. It’s cavernous and slightly evil. It’d make a great supervillain lair, if such a thing actually existed – practical, too, none of that sharks and lasers crap. 

The other person inside is the girl from the club, curled up on the couch with a laptop balanced against her thighs. She’s looking at Stiles curiously, in a slightly hostile, slightly interested way. 

“Why do you want Derek?” she asks. 

“I – uh.” Stiles falters a bit, casting around. He can’t just give away his hand, they could all be evil. 

“He’s not going to be home for a bit,” she says. 

As if on cue, the door rolls open again. The three of them turn, and find Derek standing in the door. 

“Who’s not going to be home for a bit?” Derek asks, right before his eyes land on Stiles. “Are you for serious? Are you stalking me, Library Kid?” 

“No!” Stiles says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I swear I have like, a legit reason for being here.” 

Derek just raises his eyebrows, clearly waiting. Stiles looks around, extremely aware that he’s basically in a wolf den – this was _such_ a bad idea, they’re all insanely powerful, he can feel that – and clears his throat. 

“We need to know about Jennifer Blake,” he says. 

“Who?” Peter asks, crossing his arms.

“Julia Baccari,” Derek answers, shutting the door behind him and loping down the steps to come to stand near, but not quite in, Stiles’ personal space. It’s like he wants to intimidate Stiles, but, at the same time, he’s wary of getting too close. 

“Yeah, why did she change her name?” Stiles asks, because he has honestly been wondering. He and Scott thought that the news article had honestly just gotten her name wrong, at first. 

“Long story,” Derek answers. He’s staring at Stiles like he’s trying to puzzle an answer out of him just via a very broody gaze. “How do you know about her?” 

“She’s our new English teacher.” 

“Wait, wait,” Peter steps closer, and Stiles recoils, just a bit. He’d thought that Derek was the one giving him the heebie-jeebies – and he is, to some degree – but the creeping darkness he’d actually felt came from Peter, twisted up with the sparks of electricity Stiles can feel from him. “We’ve been looking for her this whole time, and she’s been cooling her heels at the high school?”

“Told you I should have gone undercover,” Cora says with a sigh. “Deucalion had it right with the twins.”

“Um, sorry, who and who?” Stiles asks, still attempting to shuffle away from Peter without making it obvious. 

“Am I making you nervous?” Peter asks, smiling with too many teeth. Evidently stealthy, Stiles is not. 

“Uh –“

“Shut up, Peter,” Derek says, without looking at him. “Do you know anything else about her?”

“Well, despite the fact that she faked her death? Um, not… much.”

“Not much.”

Stiles casts another quick glance around. Cora and Peter are looking at him just as intensely as Derek is. He really has no idea as to if they’re interested in hurting him, and the fact is, Stiles stays hidden. If he explains what else he knows about Miss Blake, he’s going to be giving up that he’s powered, and what his ability is, as well as Scott’s ability. 

Peter clears his throat. Stiles meets Derek’s gaze. 

“What’s in it for me?” He asks. Derek lets out an exasperated sigh, crossing his arms, and finally breaks his gaze long enough to roll his eyes. “No, I’m serious. Something is up here, I want information for information.” 

“She can regenerate,” Cora says, and all three turn to stare at her. “There. You have your information. Now, care to share with the class?”

“Wait, seriously? Holy shit, that is so cool. I mean, also terrifying, but also major league cool. I had no idea that _anyone_ could do that,” Stiles says. 

“Share,” Derek says, and Stiles turns back to him. He’s clasping and unclasping the fingers on one hand (Stiles notes that he’s still wearing gloves), like he’s three seconds from punching Stiles into giving up whatever he knows. 

“That’s not her only ability,” Stiles says.

“We know. She’s a telekinetic as well,” Peter says. 

“Man, some people get _all_ the cool powers,” Stiles says. At Derek’s growl he hastens on. “Beyond that. She can shield, and not just against me, but against – the other kid with me, at the library? Him. He’s an empath.” 

“Is she an Argent?” Peter asks sharply, turning to Derek. Derek’s face has gone, if possible, even darker and stormier. 

_Argent_. Stiles files that away – evidently a) the Hales know the Argents, and b) Allison’s ability is definitely genetic. He’s pretty sure that he’s got his surprise written all over his face, but luckily Peter and Derek are muttering at each other and not paying Stiles much attention. 

“She can’t be,” Peter says. “We know that whole family tree.”

“Yeah, but do we know all of the branches?”

“I’d hope so. Besides, who’s left? They’re a dying breed.”

“Um, question,” Cora asks, and when Stiles turns she’s holding a hand up. “When you said she could shield herself from you, what exactly did you mean? You’re also an empath? Because I can’t feel you as anything besides lame-o human.” 

“I am not _lame_ ,” Stiles says, feeling slightly offended on anyone normal’s behalf. 

“But you are an empathy,” Peter guesses. “Who can also shield.”

“Wrong,” Stiles says. And hey, go big or go home. Raising a finger, he points it at Cora. “Fire starter. And you’re immune.” He turns to Peter. “Electricity control.” Derek. “And you’re a powersink.” 

Derek growls – an actual, like full on growl – and steps forward, although Peter puts out a hand to stop him. Stiles distantly notes that Peter holds his hand an inch or two away from Derek though, not quite making contact. 

“He’s a cerebral,” Peter says. “Well, today’s full of surprises. You might be of use.”

“Oh no, I am so not anyone’s minion,” Stiles says, crossing his arms. 

“Do you know what Deucalion’s pack can do, though?” Peter asks. 

“Ok, again, who?”

“Five powered individuals, they came into town a few weeks ago,” Cora says, and finally gets up to join them. She’s tall – almost as tall as Stiles. “Deucalion is their leader.”

They’ve finally got a name. Maybe this errand is going way, way better than Stiles thought it would. 

“I do know what they are,” Stiles says. “Do you know why they’re here?”

“Everyone’s here for one Julia Baccari,” Peter says. “She’s become quite the popular lady.” 

“I’ll help you with this dude’s pack, if you level on why everyone wants her dead,” Stiles says. 

“Deal,” Derek says, still growly. Stiles puts out a hand to shake on it, but Peter is the one who takes his hand instead, Derek’s gloved hands still safely crossed over his chest. 

\---

“This is really kind of stupid,” Scott points out as he and Cora crunch through dead leaves in the preserve. They’ve got one flashlight between them, and Cora had called it, leaving Scott to walk with his hands in his pockets. 

“We’re going to find them,” Cora says. 

“No, not that, although honestly, if they’re trying to be evil, why not just… offer them a challenge? A duel? Isn’t that suitably comic book dramatic?” 

“News flash, life is not a comic book.”

“Well, obviously. No, I mean, the fact that Miss Blake – or whoever – is honestly here just to be evil.”

“Some people just do that.”

“Ok, where I come from, we don’t have any villains and heroes.” 

“Sounds boring.” 

Scott sighs, hunching a bit further into his hoodie and watching as the beam of light sweeps across dead leaves and twigs. Cora feels like a block of ice to his right, she has since they were introduced a few days ago when Stiles had somehow gotten them all into a (very sulky) alliance. Whereas Peter is mercurial, hooded and smarmy to a degree that makes Scott’s skin crawl, and Derek is just constantly angry and beating himself up, Cora has been on lockdown the whole time. There’s neutral, and then there’s ‘are you sure you’re not a robot?’

Honestly, Scott had wanted to get paired up with Allison, but she’d gone with Lydia. Something about their abilities working well together. So it was either Peter or Cora, and Peter made him kind of sick to his stomach. Besides, he was off being creepy somewhere tonight. 

In all, tonight has been less than idea. He’d had to turn the volume way down on his Bluetooth, considering mission control was now Stiles _and_ Derek, and all they did was squabble, usually in range of Stiles’ headset. 

(They’re currently arguing over the color of Stiles’ bedroom walls, of all the stupid things.)

“I really hate that the two least powerful members of our groups are both snarky and hate each other,” Scott mumbles. That, finally, gets a spike of something that might possibly be amusement from Cora, but it’s gone as fast as it had shown up. 

“Derek’s incredibly powerful if he gets his hands on someone who is. He and Peter work well together,” Cora says. There’s an unspoken _but_ in there somewhere though, like they don’t do it much anymore. 

“Can he just kind of… suck the power out of someone?” Scott asks, and Cora pulls a face. 

“No, moron. He’s got to be touching them.”

“Hey, just asking,” Scott mumbles. Rude. 

They walk on for another couple of stony, silent minutes before something pulls at Scott – something moving incredibly fast. Usually when someone moves towards him it’s like a wave on a beach, slowly and smoothly sliding in, emotions under his skin and in his mind. This is more like a hurricane. He stops dead, and Cora shuffles to a halt next to him. He grabs the flashlight, shining it in the direction he needs it, and tries to extend his sight as far as he can.

A woman comes slamming into the far edge of his vision before she slows, strolling towards them. 

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she calls, and Scott can feel Cora’s confusion become something spikey and shard-like. In a second she’s in front of Scott, fire curling around her hands and up her arms. 

“Stay back,” Cora says, anger slicing across her skin and Scott’s mind. 

“Who do we have here?” The woman asks, stopping a fair distance from them. “The littlest Hale and Scott McCall.” 

Scott blinks in confusion – there’s no way she should know who he is. He flips the flashlight in his hand, trusting his eyes and the light from Cora’s flames, and grips tight, counting on the handle to pack a punch. 

He focuses on the woman, letting everything else slip away. He’s done this before with Deaton, using his abilities to anticipate a move. 

He’s still not prepared for it when she’s suddenly a foot from him. He jumps back with a yelp as she twists away from Cora, kicking her legs out from under her on the way down. Cora has to give up her fire to catch herself on her hands – the dry leaves would have gone up in a second if she’d touched them with flame in her palms. 

The woman hauls Scott back by his hoodie, swinging him around and slams him into a tree, knocking the air from his lungs. He drops down, coughing, the flashlight rolling way into the leaves. 

“I have no idea why Deuc wants you so badly,” she says, bending down as he frantically tries to get air back in his body. “You don’t seem particularly special to me.”

Behind them, Cora has gotten back up, and she launches herself at the woman, grabbing her by the shoulders with flaming hands. The woman screams as she spins around, her leather jacket burned away to reveal blistering skin underneath. 

Scott takes the opportunity, and as the woman moves again – inhumanly fast, too fast for Cora – he moves with her. He’s not as fast, but he’s still fast, and he slides into the leaves along side her, knocking her legs out from under her. She tumbles into the leaves as Scott gets up, although she’s up just as fast. He just barely ducks in time to avoid a punch she throws his way, every little bit of his mind and body concentrating on trying to anticipate what she’s going to do and moving out of the way. 

“Cora!” Scott yells. “I could use some light!”

He really hopes Cora gets the message. One of the woman’s punches catches him, slamming into his shoulder with inhuman speed. He grunts, half surprise, half pain, and stumbles back. It’s all she needs, he’s been thrown off rhythm, and she races at him, grabbing him by his arm and yanking. 

It’s like his whole arm is on fire. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth against the pain, and is about to go down again when he feels someone slip the cool metal of the flashlight into his hand. Luckily, it’s his good arm. 

He channels his pain, the adrenaline in his veins, and sees the next hit coming. He slides under the woman’s arm, and swings around, putting all his weight behind the flashlight. It makes a sickening sound as it connects with the side of her skull, and she crumples into the dead leaves like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut. 

He stands, trying to catch his breath, and stares down at her. There is blood sluggishly pooling in her hair, catching the moonlight. 

“You moved fast,” Cora notes, and Scott feels something from her that suggests that she might even be impressed. “We should get her somewhere, like back to the loft.” 

“Yeah,” Scott huffs, still breathing hard. “And get my shoulder looked at.” He tries to move it and his shoulder protests loudly, pain spiking all the way down to his fingers and up into his head. 

“Scott?” Scott’s vaguely aware that someone is very quietly saying his name, whispered right into his ear. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize it’s his Bluetooth. He digs around in his pocket with his good arm to turn the volume up on his phone. “Scott? Oh fuck, if you’re dead-“

“I’m alive,” Scott says. “We’re both alive. And we’ve got one of Deucalion’s pack.”

“Holy shit, that is excellent,” Stiles says over the connection. 

“Cora suggested taking her back to the loft.”

“That’ll work. We’ll swing by and grab you guys in the Jeep.”

“Got it.”

Scott stares down at the unconscious woman and then back at Cora. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have super strength in there somewhere, would you?” He asks, smiling weakly, and Cora actually laughs, shaking her head. 

“Looks like we’re dragging her, then,” Cora says, and, although it’s awkward and painful, they manage to drag her all the way to the road. 

\---

Scott is wincing every time he tries to move his shoulder, which in turn, is making Stiles wince in sympathy. Deaton had neatly popped it back into the socket – no more damage than a dislocated shoulder – but he had told Scott not to move it too much. 

“You should really stop doing that, dude,” Stiles points out. 

“You really should,” Allison says. She’s got Scott sprawled between her legs on Derek’s couch, Scott’s bad arm supported on one of her thighs. 

“I just want to test the range of motion,” Scott says, and then winces when he moves again. 

“Oh my god, stop,” Allison says, laughing, and distracts Scott by pressing a kiss to his forehead. Stiles sticks out his tongue. Allison just raises her eyebrows at him when she notices him looking. 

“I’ll leave you two to your game of tonsil hockey,” Stiles says, sighing. 

“There’s no hockey going on,” Scott says, and he looks confused. “Are you hallucinating about us making out?”

“Um, ew,” Stiles says, getting up and stretching. “You know, sex is probably bad for your arm. Oh god, ew again. And that was _my_ fault.” 

He wanders off while Allison and Scott laugh, as he tries to scrub the image of his best friend and Allison having incredibly athletic sex, all while trying to not jostle Scott’s bad arm. 

Deaton is sitting with their knocked out prisoner, Morrell flanking her other side. She’d woken up pretty fast, but Deaton had sedated her, because it turned out that a speedster with a concussion was bad news. Stiles would worry about her overall health and brain function, but Deaton, as much as he’s tried it with everyone else, has never been able to hide from Stiles that his secondary ability is healing. Stiles can feel him using it now, a slow, wide river of a connection between the woman and Deaton. 

Peter is still missing. Stiles is really ok with that, the guy gives him a serious case of the creeps. For some insane reason Cora and Lydia had vanished off into Cora’s room together (the only reason Lydia was with them at all so much these days was because Jackson was off on vacation), and that meant that the only other person in the house was Derek. 

Over the last few nights of patrols, Stiles had discovered that he and Derek, if they were in a comic book together, would totally be those two sidekicks who were forced to work together and did nothing but snark at each other. If Bucky and Nightwing existed in the same universe, that would be Derek and Stiles. 

(Except for the whole bit where Stiles still has all his limbs and has never been brainwashed by the Russians.)

Stiles stands awkwardly in the area between the main room and the kitchen for a moment, thinking about going home before he remembers that he lied that he’d be staying at Scott’s, when Derek appears from somewhere in the depth of the kitchen. He’s sullenly eating an apple, as if the apple has offended him but there’s nothing much he can do about it. 

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Stiles says. 

“For what?” Derek asks around apple.

“I don’t know?”

Derek grunts in response. Neither of them move. 

“Great, there are teenagers making out on my couch,” Derek mutters. Stiles resolutely does not turn around to look. 

“It’s happens occasionally.” 

“You should get home. And take those two with you. And Lydia. Where the hell is she, anyway?”

“With Cora. And actually, we all lied about where we were staying, so we can’t just… go home.” Realization dawns on Stiles. “Shit, we totally lied ourselves into a circle and we’ve got nowhere to stay.”

“Oh, excellent job,” Derek replies, dry as desert. “Your planning skills are fantastic.”

“Hey, they are normally.” 

Stiles sighs, sagging a bit. He can always stay in the Jeep, he guesses. He fishes in his pocket for his keys before Derek echoes his sigh. 

“Stay here.” Derek says this like it actually hurts to say, and Stiles is momentarily stunned that he’s even suggested it. 

“I cannot believe I just heard you say that,” Stiles says. “Scott is right, I am hallucinating.”

“Do _not_ think that this is an open invitation,” Derek says, pointing at him with the apple core. “It does not become a habit.”

“Totally will not become a habit,” Stiles assures him solemnly. Derek glares at him for a moment before moving off. 

It turns out the couch pulls out into a bed, which goes to the lovebirds. Cora appears long enough to say that Lydia can stay her in room (Stiles doesn’t miss the strange look Scott is giving her, and makes a mental note to ask him about it later), which leaves Stiles with the option of Peter’s bed, considering he doesn’t seem to be coming back. 

“Oh my god, no, gross, not a thing that’s happening,” Stiles says. 

“What, are you afraid you’re going to get Peter’s cooties?” Derek asks, glowering at Stiles. 

“No, I’m afraid I’m going to catch his _evil_. Oh. Um, sorry. I know he’s family and all. But he kinda feels really evil.”

Derek sighs, but he doesn’t contest the evil part. 

“There’s a couch in my room,” he says finally. “If you snore, I’m kicking you out. In fact, if you make any noise, or even move, I’m kicking you out.” 

Stiles salutes him, and ends up cocooned in spare blankets on Derek’s very nice, incredibly high quality leather couch. It’s the softest leather that Stiles has ever felt in his life, and he ends up running his fingers over the seams again and again. 

That’s where Derek finds him when he comes out of his bathroom. 

“Stop feeling up my couch,” Derek says, and Stiles snaps his head up to stare at him, excuse on his lips. However, whatever he was going to say dies in his mouth when he’s confronted with shirtless, sweatpants wearing Derek. He knows, logically, that Derek is incredibly fit. The guy doesn’t wear a ton of layers, and it’s obvious. In short: Derek is megawatt hot(t). 

Stiles is about to say something _monumentally_ stupid to this affect that will at least get him kicked off of Derek’s couch if not out of his apartment when he sees the scar. It looks like a dead tree, slightly raised and just darker that Derek’s skin, and Stiles takes a moment to place it – he’s seen pictures online of people with scars like that from getting struck by lightning. It starts at the junction of his right arm and chest, and trails down his ribs and side, curling away into nothing. 

“Ouch,” Stiles breathes, barely audible. When Derek turns to look at him, there’s something dark in his eyes, and Stiles just holds up his hands, palms out. “I won’t ask. I wasn’t going to.”

Derek just nods, before slipping under the covers and turning off the light without preamble or question, leaving Stiles sitting up in the dark. He stares at the bed, with its Derek shaped lump under the blankets, for a moment before turning his attention to the slats of light slipping through the blinds instead, moon mixed with streetlight. 

“Do you always wear the gloves?” Stiles isn’t sure he means to ask it, but it tumbles out of his mouth anyway, quiet and loud at the same time, all at once, in the dark space. 

The silence stretches on for so long that Stiles has figured that Derek isn’t going to answer, and he burrows down in his blanket cocoon, staring at the ceiling. 

“Almost,” Derek says finally. “When you read me, can you… do you just get the powersink?”

“Yeah, and the little things that come with it.” Everyone has little quirks, not even secondary powers, that come with their ability. In Derek’s case, Stiles figures it’s probably something like memory or thought transference along with abilities. 

“Then you know I shouldn’t touch people.”

“That’s bleak.”

“That’s life.”

Stiles doesn’t push it, just stares at the ceiling, and wonders what Derek has seen and heard in people’s minds, what he’s done with other people’s abilities to make him so closed off. Stiles kind of wants to say _you could touch me_ , because his ability isn’t going to hurt anyone, but it sounds strange, and easy to misconstrue, in his own head. 

Of course, as benign as Stiles’ ability is, he’s still got plenty of memories he wouldn’t wish on anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

Cora and Lydia are up before Scott the next morning. When he and Allison join them in what’s some spare back office type room, they’re checking the woman’s bonds as she stirs. 

“Meet Kali,” Cora says as the woman opens her eyes, wincing at the bright light. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s roped to a chair, and she immediately starts tugging at the restraints. 

“Oh, what the fu –“ She slams her body forward, and the chair creaks, but it doesn’t give. She looks livid, her eyes flashing. “Alright Scooby Gang, it’s in your best interest to untie me.” 

“Somehow I doubt that,” Lydia says. “What were you doing out last night?”

Kali looks over at Lydia, seemingly sizing her up. Scott can feel her flick through a few different emotions, almost too quick to follow. Everything about her is fast, even her thoughts and feelings. 

“Your interrogation technique is to just ask me boring questions? Excellent, Red.” Kali glares at her. 

“Answer her,” Cora says, stepping towards Kali. When she kneels by her side she holds up a hand, the first warm glow of flame in her palm. “Or I’ll make this a lot less boring.”

Kali glares at her. Cora doesn’t flinch. 

“I was supposed to get you,” Kali says finally, nodding to Scott. 

In a way, Scott had been expecting it. She had said something last night about Deucalion wanting him. It’s still strange to hear – he has no earthly idea why someone would want him. Especially not someone nefarious. 

“Just Scott?” Allison asks. “Not all of us?”

“No,” Kali says, and Scott can feel her confusion. “Why would Deucalion want a couple of low level nobodies?”

“Hey, Speedy,” Cora says, and it’s the first time she’s felt annoyed. The fire in her palm rises, and Kali blanches, trying to scoot into the far corner of the chair. Scott can feel the heat. “Watch it.”

“You’re working with Deucalion,” Allison says. “Not Jennifer Blake?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Kali asks. 

“Jennifer Blake. Is she working with you?” Allison asks. 

Scott’s not expecting Kali to let her head fall back, laughing. 

“Oh, that’s good. You think Jen’s a problem? Lemme spoil something for you – she’s not. If you’re worried about her, you’re worrying in the wrong direction.”

“Meaning?” Scott asks. 

“Deucalion is the only person you should be worrying about,” Kali says. “Trust me.”

“She’s not lying,” Scott says. Or, he assumes she’s not. There’s the chance that she could be trained to lie well enough to get past empaths, but he’s hoping she’s not. 

“I’m confused,” Lydia says, sitting down on the desk in the room. “How _does_ Miss Blake fit into this?”

Kali looks around the room, and Scott can feel the wheels in her brain spinning, making calculations and dismissing them just as fast as they come. When she finally opens her mouth to speak, there’s a steel spike of resolve in her mind. 

“She wants to take down Deucalion,” Kali says, and her voice is softer than it’s been, less angry. 

“But you’re working with him,” Lydia says, although something about the timber of her voice makes Scott think that she’s figured something out already, and is leading Kali. When Kali turns to her, she locks her eyes on Lydia. 

“It’s been a necessary step,” Kali says. 

“You’re actually with Miss Blake,” Lydia says. 

“Point to Red,” Kali says. 

“What the hell has Deucalion done that Blake wants him dead? We were told she was here to cause trouble,” Allison says. “She’s left a trail of _bodies_ in her wake.”

Scott feels everyone else’s confusion as much as his own, and he stares at Allison. 

“You shouldn’t know that,” Kali says, narrowing her eyes. “We’ve done a good job sweeping that under the rug.”

“Argent,” is all Allison says. Scott doesn’t miss the way the name affects two people in the room – Kali looks downright murderous. Cora actually stands up, and there’s fire in her other hand now too, uncontrolled anger blooming in her mind. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Cora asks, and there’s an edge to her voice as she turns to Allison. “You wanna repeat that?”

“My last name is Argent,” Allison says to empty space before turning to Cora. When she speaks, she’s masking herself. She has to be doing it on purpose, shutting Scott out. “And yes, I know what Kate did.” 

Before anyone can react, Cora launches herself at Allison. It seems like they move in tandem, Cora with her hands raised and Allison dropping into a defensive position that seems highly trained. However, before they can collide Kali is suddenly up, out of the chair, and has Cora by the waist at the same time that Lydia whistles, one clear, high note. 

It serves its purpose. Everyone in the room winces like they’ve been struck and stop moving. Scott, on the other hand, drops to one knee, slamming his hands over his ears as what seems like a scream to him reverbs around his skull, a high, horrible noise. For a moment the only thing he can feel, from the outside world or his own body, is searing, whitehot pain that threatens to overload his brain.

Allison has him wrapped up in her arms in a second. It feels like the dust settling after an explosion, and Scott grits his teeth as his world rights itself, images filtering back into his vision. 

“I’m sorry.” He’s aware that Lydia is talking. “I wasn’t going to let Cora fry you.”

“You don’t control me!” Cora snaps at the same time that Allison says, “you could have just asked.” 

Scott’s only aware that he’s closed his eyes when he has to open them. He’s sprawled, sitting, on the floor, with Allison kneeling next to him, an arm still protectively across his shoulder. His brain is processing things at a strange speed, things out of order and jumbled. The sound of voices is muffled, but the light coming in through the window is so, _so_ bright, and he can feel every single strand of Allison’s hair where it’s falling across his arm. The ringing in his ears isn’t helping.

“How are you even up?” Cora asks, and Scott looks up as she advances towards Kali. 

“Speedster, idiot,” Kali growls. “How long do you think it takes me to get out of some amateur knots?” 

“Can everyone _calm the hell down_ ,” Scott says, breathing hard. “For just a second.” 

Amazingly, it works. Kali drops back into her chair, slouching and crossing her arms and legs. Allison helps him back up, his body still tense. 

“You’re more powerful than I thought,” Kali notes dryly. “She just whistled, how did that drop you so fast?”

“Banshee, sensor,” Cora says, curt, nodding at Lydia and then Scott. Scott notices that the fire dancing across her skin hasn’t gone down, and it’s warming up the room. “It happens.”

“Not unless both of them are more powerful than they look,” Kali says. When Cora doesn’t move, Kali smirks at her, snake like. “You don’t have a cerebral in your group, do you?” 

“A what?” Scott asks. 

“A Stiles,” Allison answers. “We do. The Hales don’t.” 

“Well, you all have lots and lots to discuss,” Kali says. She seems downright delighted, about what though Scott isn’t totally sure. 

“We’re not done here,” Scott says. “First, you need to tell us what exactly is going on with Deucalion and Miss Blake.”

“That’s easy. Deucalion ordered me to kill Julia. I said I did. I didn’t. We’re going to remove him from the equation. And you’re going to help us, because Deucalion thinks he’s some kind of comic character and literally wants unlimited power. And he’s a real danger.” 

\---

Stiles jolts awake when he hears a familiar whistle, sitting bolt upright. Derek stirs across the room, groaning and flopping onto his back. 

“God, what the hell was that?” Derek mutters, his voice rough with sleep. 

“Lydia,” Stiles says, scrambling out from under the blanket he’d cocooned himself up in.

“The redhead?” Derek says, rolling up onto an elbow and rubbing at his face. 

“She’s a banshee,” Stiles explains, most of the way to the door. Derek startles at that, and he’s up in a shot, hot on Stiles’ heels. 

They get down to the office at the back of the Hales’ loft just as the door opens and Cora comes storming out, fire trailing from her fingertips, and, scarily enough, the corners of her eyes and the ends of her hair. 

Derek moves to grab her by the arm and stops at the last second, pulling back like he’s been burned without touching her. It takes Stiles a sleepy beat to realize that he’s not wearing his gloves. 

“We need to talk,” Cora hisses at him, and heads for her room. Derek heads after her, tucking his hands under his arms. 

The woman from last night strolls out next, utterly at ease, Lydia close behind her. 

“Um, what’s she doing up and not hogtied?” Stiles asks. 

“We had a few things wrong,” Lydia says. “Kali and I are going to continue this chat.”

Stiles watches them sit down on the couch together and feels _utterly_ out of the loop. He shakes his head and slips into the office instead. 

Scott is sitting with his back to the wall, sprawled and loose limbed, and staring at Allison with an odd look on his face. She’s sitting on the edge of the desk and looking away from Scott, curled in on herself. Stiles shuts the door and sits down next to Scott, frowning. 

“You ok?” Stiles asks. He’s only seen Lydia whistle once around Scott, and it had dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He has no idea what would happen if she ever shrieked in his presence. 

“Been better,” Scott sighs. He won’t look at Stiles, his eyes still fixed on Allison. “Want to explain why Cora reacted the way she did?”

Stiles realizes he’s talking to Allison, and he turns to look at her. When she speaks she’s staring off into empty space, addressing the far wall instead. 

“I… my family isn’t well liked among people like Cora,” she says. 

“Meaning?” Stiles asks, because he’s curious now too. 

“Stiles, when you sense someone, can you get a feel for how strong they are?” Allison asks. 

“Uh, kinda. It works better when I’m in a group, so I can rank people.”

“Who’s the strongest in this house right now?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and letting the world drop away to the pinpricks of light that make up the rest of the people in loft. He can’t feel Allison well, just that low level glow he gets from her, so in this room he can only rank Scott against himself. Scott’s easily way more powerful, Stiles has known that for a while. 

His mind skips through the dark, searching out the next sparks – Lydia and, what had Lydia called her? Kali. They’re both about the same as Scott, glowing that bright white, almost blue color that he associates with Scott’s ability. 

Now that Stiles is concentrating on power level, not just ability, he realizes what he missed. There are two supernovas in this loft, tucked into the far corner of what he realizes must be Cora’s room. Derek and Cora burn brighter than any of them, consuming that whole corner of Stiles’ mind. 

His eyes snap open and he draws in a deep breath. His heart feels like it’s going a million miles an hour, and he realizes Allison has moved. She’s kneeling in front of them, and both she and Scott are looking at him with worry. 

“You haven’t gone out like that in a while,” Scott says. 

“I usually concentrate on people’s abilities,” Stiles says, panting. “Power level is newer for me. And to answer your question – Derek and Cora. By far.”

“The Hales are known to be an incredibly powerful family,” Allison says. 

“I didn’t think anyone was really powerful,” Scott says. 

“There’s a small part of the population that is,” Allison says. “It tends to run in families.”

“And your family is one too?” Scott asks. 

“Only in our shielding ability,” Allison answers. “Most of my family doesn’t have secondary abilities, and if they do, they’re weak. I got my mom’s ability as well as my dad’s. Here-“

It’s like someone’s lit a match in the room, a single heartbeat of light flaring into existence in Stiles’ mind. He realizes with a start that it’s Allison – she’s dropped her shields. He hears Scott suck in a breath at the same time. 

She’s not as strong as Derek and Cora, but she’s a fierce contender. 

“That’s my masking ability,” Allison says. “My reflex stuff is pretty low level. I’m about as strong as you are, Stiles.” 

The flame is gone as fast as it came, and Stiles is left leaning forward, wanting more. 

“So, this all means?” Scott asks. 

“The Argents are an old family. Like, insanely. From the time that people first started manifesting powers,” Allison says. 

“The witch hunts in the Middle Ages?” Stiles asks. That’s more that insanely old, Stiles isn’t even sure it’s physically possible to track a family tree that far back. 

“Yeah. My family gained a skilled reputation for… dealing with highly powered individuals,” Allison says, and she looks away again. 

“Dealing with,” Scott says flatly. 

“Hunting,” Allison answers. 

“Your family are hunters?” Stiles says. “Oh, that’s just _awesome_.”

“I’m not,” Allison says, narrowing her eyes. “My father took me and left. We’re not part of that life anymore.”

“Except you knew about Miss Blake,” Scott says. 

“What about Miss Blake?” Stiles asks, scooting closer to Scott, their hips almost touching. 

“It’s a long story,” Allison says. “My dad still gets… intel. From time to time. Miss Blake is _incredibly_ powerful, she’s got a few people tracking her.” 

“Sounds like your dad isn’t so removed,” Stiles says, glaring. Allison sighs, fisting her hands in her skirt. 

“That’s not what I do,” she says, voice low. “I’m not my family.” 

“No, just part of it,” Stiles says. 

“What did Kate do?” Scott asks, his voice quiet. 

“That’s not my story to tell,” Allison says. 

They’re quiet for a moment, and Stiles turns to Scott, offers him a weak smile and a pat on the leg. Scott lets his head fall back against the wall, smiling at the contact. 

When the door slams open they all jump. Cora’s standing in the open doorway, and although there’s no longer fire crawling across her skin, Stiles doesn’t need Scott’s ability to know she’s pissed. 

“You should leave,” Cora says, dark and icy, and Allison just nods, standing stiffly. Scott suddenly scrambles up, pulling Stiles up with him. 

“We’ll get out of your hair,” Scott says. “All of us.” 

“Fill me in?” Stiles hisses on their way out the door, and Scott just nods. 

Once they’re safely in the Jeep (although Stiles realizes they’re missing Lydia), Allison and Scott fill him in. The information twists and turns, and Stiles gets the impression that someone involved in all of this has been telling half truths, because not all of what Kali had said matched up with what the Hales had originally told them. It doesn’t sit well with him, and he knows he’s going to spend a while sorting through everything. 

\---

After the catch up is finished they drive in silence. Scott doesn’t know exactly how to process everything about what Allison had just told him. He can feel that Stiles is still angry about everything, and Allison… he can’t feel a lot coming from Allison. She’s always been somewhat muted, but he never looked at it too hard. She always bloomed bright when she was happy or excited, and he loved that, it was all that mattered. 

For those few seconds that she had fully dropped her masking ability though, it had been like nothing Scott had ever felt from her. He had, for the stretch of a heartbeat, been wrapped up in the most brilliant storm of emotions from Allison, unmasked and unbridled. 

It had been all consuming, and he wants to feel it again. 

He sighs, slumping in his seat and staring at the roof of the Jeep. Stiles reaches out to fiddle with the radio, and Scott watches the muscles and tendons move in his hand, under his skin, as he messes with the volume dial and channel buttons. 

“Guys, whose house are we supposed to be at?” Allison asks, leaning forward between the two front seats. 

“Shit, I forgot about that,” Stiles groans. “What time is it?”

“Just after ten,” Allison says, checking her phone. 

“My dad’s shift started at ten,” Stiles says. “We should be able to crash at mine for a bit.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scott says. He’s grateful for it, actually. He’s still so muddled from everything that right now he doesn’t want to be alone, confused about Allison. He knew about hunters, certainly, whispers about them keeping powered individuals in check, but he’s pretty sure that the Hale fire was aberrational. Things like that didn’t happen anymore. And the fact that hunters were powered spins things into a new place. Scott can’t image going after your own kind. 

Stiles’ house is blissfully empty, just the early morning sunlight coming in through the windows and the remnants of breakfast in the kitchen. Scott stands in the front room and takes a deep breath, smelling _home_. He’s grown up at Stiles’ place as much as he has at his own house, and all of the smells here are just as familiar. Black coffee, basic detergent, old books, and dust in forgotten corners behind couches and beds. It’s all basal. Scott loves it. 

They end up sitting in a circle on Stiles bed, Allison with a mug of tea clutched in her hands like a lifeline. The citrus in it is like an arrow through the room, sharp and unfamiliar. 

Allison is muted, but she still feels uneven and rocky. Stiles still feels prickly. Scott still has no idea what to do. 

“We can’t solve anything but just sitting here,” Scott says. “Brooding isn’t really our style.”

Stiles cracks a grin at that, as does Allison, although she tries to hide it behind her mug. 

“I’m sorry,” Allison says finally, quietly. “I’m not used to being caught so off guard. I wasn’t sure if Cora actually knew about Kate. We kept it pretty quiet.”

“I still want to know that story,” Stiles says. 

“Again, not mine to tell,” Allison says. 

“We can’t be divided right now,” Scott says, sighing. “Kali wasn’t lying about what she told us, or at least it didn’t feel like she was, but still. We _have_ to stick together.” 

“I promise I’m not my family,” Allison says. “The path my father choose for us was different, and I’m sticking to it. I don’t kill people.”

“Good to know,” Stiles mutters. 

“C’mere, both of you,” Scott says. Allison and Stiles both eye him for a second before Stiles crawls forward, tucking himself under one of Scott’s outstretched arms. Allison takes a second longer, but she puts her mug down on the floor and presses herself into Scott’s side. When they’re all physically connected like this their emotions meld together, becoming a tangled storm. It’s not calming, but it’s something familiar. 

Eventually they topple backwards, and their limbs tangle like the threads of their emotions. Allison noses at his neck, pressing a kiss into his skin, and Scott’s a bit surprised, but not unhappy, when Stiles slips a hand under the hem of his shirt, resting over the dip of his hipbone. It’s not like he and Stiles aren’t touchy – they are – but this is new. 

“Don’t go stealing my boyfriend, Stilinski,” Allison says, her head raised, a crooked smile on her face. She’s watching Stiles’ hand, and he starts dragging it over Scott’s skin, his fingertips ghosting along the contours of his stomach. When his hand starts going lower, Scott’s breath catches.

“I won’t steal him,” Stiles says. “I might share though.”

Allison laughs, and the sound and the emotion crash over Scott, and, pressed between Stiles and Allison, he can’t help the moan that slips out of his mouth. 

Allison throws a leg over his hips, and helps Stiles get his shirt off. Their hands are warm, so warm, against his skin, and he lets his head fall back when Allison goes back to kissing his neck. 

“You ok with this?” Stiles murmurs against his ear. 

“Totally,” Scott breathes, licking his lips. Stiles smiles against his skin, and when he kisses the corner of Scott’s jaw it feels familiar and unfamiliar all at once. 

It’s like someone is singing across his skin, everything heightened and contained. He can feel Stiles and Allison moving a split second before they actually do, choices made mostly out of heat, their hands and lips leaving trails of light in their wake. It’s a bit hard for him to keep up, the sensory overload from both of them spilling across his mind, but he feels like he’s floating, with Stiles and Allison being his only port of call. 

They pull him out of his skin, his back arching and their bodies anchoring. When he comes down the world beyond them seems dull in a way, hooded behind them. He’s more than happy to stay linked to the two of them. 

They fall asleep in a messy heap, all curled together, the covers forgotten in favor of their own warmth.


End file.
